Confessional
by Cameron Dial
Summary: Follows "Comes a Horseman" and "Revelation 6:8," from Methos' point of view.


Confessional**  
**by Cameron Dial  
June 2001

Timeline: Immediately following Methos' return to Paris  
after the episode "Revelation 6:8"

It was late, past eleven when he passed Paris' Chinatown, Bordeaux and Cassandra half a day's drive behind him. In the Latin Quarter he found himself turning left at Pont au Double, and when the lighted front of St. Julien-le-Pauvre winked at him through the trees ringing the square, he turned left and then left again, parked illegally, and shut off the car's motor.

Like most things, Methos thought, St. Julien's looked different when viewed from a certain perspective. It seemed smaller at night, somehow, less the bastion against the world he was seeking and more a reminder of the past. The floodlights bathed it in white, giving the church an otherworldly look despite the familiarity of its gray stone face, the blue and white stained glass window above the dark door, and the simple cross over all.

The tall door squeaked--it had for decades--and he smiled, both amused and comforted by the fact. The vaulted interior was lit only by candles and the muted glow of the exterior floodlights through the stained glass overhead. Ornamental columns stretched on the left and right, leading him toward the dimly lit nave; in the center of the church row upon row of hard, straight backed wooden chairs stood ready for the worshipers and tomorrow's services. To the left, he knew, was the confessional, to the right, a short hall that led to the priest's chamber.

Once, not so long ago, that room had belonged to Darius, and Methos had spent a fair amount of time there off and on, his feet up on a stool, perusing the immortal priest's more eclectic books. Duncan MacLeod was no stranger to that room, either, Methos knew; he could picture, easily enough, Darius' chess set, the tall, hand-carved black and white pieces arranged on the inlaid table, MacLeod and Darius facing each other across it for their regular game. Odd, Methos thought, how immortal lives overlapped. He and Darius had known each other for nearly two millennia before the priest's death. Darius and MacLeod had met after the French defeat at Waterloo, and for a short time MacLeod had become Darius' student.

And why shouldn't he have become Darius' student, Methos thought. A young immortal, fresh from the horrors of yet another war--why shouldn't he have been susceptible to Brother Darius' predilection for peace? Why shouldn't Duncan MacLeod have come to share Darius' belief in the futility of battle and the fragility of human life—indeed, of all life? It wasn't as if Darius had been wrong about any of it, after all. He had simply misjudged his fellow immortals' ability to eschew the violence that was so often a part of their lives.

"The times were different, MacLeod," Methos had told MacLeod. "I was different. The whole bloody world was different. Okay?"

"Did you kill all those people?" MacLeod demanded. Like a hound with a hare, he'd kept at Methos, unwilling—unable—to hear or understand what Methos was trying to tell him. And Methos had known MacLeod wouldn't understand it, that the Highlander couldn't understand it without the necessary context and experience, so in the end he'd settled for the unvarnished truth.

"Yes," Methos said, driving the word home like a nail. "Is that what you want to hear?" he'd demanded, his eyes intent on Mac's face. "Killing was all I knew. Is that what you want to hear?" 

"It's enough," MacLeod had replied.

"No, it's not enough," Methos said, slamming MacLeod bodily against the side of the Land Rover. "I killed," he'd said, "but I didn't just kill fifty. I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed ten thousand. And I was good at it. And it wasn't for vengeance. It wasn't for greed. It was because I liked it. Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing. Do you know who I was? I was Death . . . Death on a horse. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, it was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is that what you want to hear?"

Of course it hadn't been, Methos thought, but words spoken could never be called back. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me. The children's refrain ran through his mind unbidden, and Methos smiled in the shadowed chapel. Perhaps more than anyone else, immortals knew it to be a lie. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words remain forever. Yes. That was closer to the truth, wasn't it?

Wordlessly, Methos moved into the candle-lit room to the left, standing before the conjoined penitent and confessor's booths. How long, he wondered, since he had felt the desire to be confessed? Or, for that matter, since he had believed confession might result in forgiveness?

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned . . . "

Seating himself in the penitent's booth, Methos pulled the door closed, hearing the latch click into place. He leaned forward on the seat, resting his forehead lightly on the inside of the door and smiled slightly, remembering the hesitancy he'd sensed on the other side of the screen as the priest had recognized his penitent's voice, a hesitancy nearly as visceral as the current of immortal presence running between the two booths.

"It has been . . . um—"

"Methos?" Darius had asked, incredulous.

"It's not polite to interrupt," Methos had replied. "I'm trying to remember how long it's been since my last confession."

The stunned silence had been punctuated with an appreciative chuckle, and he'd visualized Darius in the confessor's booth, arching an eyebrow at him. "Was it at least this century?" he remembered the immortal priest asking. "Perhaps if you tried to visualize what you were wearing at the time . . ."

Not so long ago, really, as he recalled it now. In fact, it had been just before the end of World War II, and he'd been on his way to Heidelberg. The opportunity for a side trip through Paris had presented itself and he'd been unable to resist surprising an old friend, whatever the Home Office thought of his itinerary. It didn't really matter, after all: They'd stopped asking him questions long before that since they didn't care much for his answers.

Just over half a century, he thought. And just how long would it be before Duncan MacLeod would truly feel he could trust him again?

"But you had to know Kronos would come for you one day," MacLeod had insisted.

"I tried not to think about it."

"You could have killed him. Why didn't you?

"I wanted to, but we were brothers in arms and blood and everything but birth, and if I judged him worthy to die, I judged myself the same way." Methos sighed. "And I wanted to live. I still do."

"Kronos was right," MacLeod said. "You set the whole thing up, didn't you?"

Ah, he'd thought. So we're back to that, are we? Superman versus supermanipulator. He didn't have that much energy, though, so he'd settled for asking, "What'dyou mean?"

"You knew he'd come after Cassandra, and you knew I'd come after her. You couldn't kill him, but you hoped I could."

Amazing, really, how the man's mind worked.

"Maybe," Methos temporized.

"Maybe," MacLeod had echoed him, his tone making clear his own thoughts on the subject.

Gods, he really did want to believe the oldest immortal had all the answers, didn't he? Too bad all he had to offer was the truth, and precious little of that at times.

Then, as they'd started downhill and across the plains toward Bordeaux again: "Methos—what about Cassandra?"

Ah, yes, Cassandra. She, too, had looked for things in him he hadn't been at all sure were there—not then, and not now.

"You don't know me," he'd told her, and he'd thought it the truth. Still did, for that matter.

Sighing, he told the truth again, saying, "One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod. One of a thousand regrets." 

There was a click and Methos realized someone had stepped into the confessional next to him. Beneath the bottom of the screen, Methos saw the gold-stitched hem of slightly frayed blue jeans, the hem of a priest's rough brown robe, and beneath both two bare feet shoved into unlaced leather running shoes. Methos grinned, realizing he'd inadvertently disturbed the priest in his study, and the man was responding to what he thought was an unexpected penitent.

"May the lord be on your lips and in your heart, that you might make a full and truthful confession and receive His blessing."

The voice was light, youthful, with more than a touch of Boston Irish laced throughout, and for just a moment Methos was tempted to string him along. Still, it was late and getting later, and Darius' memory deserved better than that.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been . . . Does it matter how long it's been since my last confession?"

"No, not really. It can be helpful, though, and it's good to be mindful of such things—"

"I'm sorry. It's been a long time. Years. I can't say how long exactly."

"Then don't let it worry you. The important thing is that you're here now. Would you like to make confession?"

"I . . . I have a question. Two questions, actually."

"All right."

"Suppose a man did something in pre-Christian times. Thousands of years before Christ. What he did would be considered a sin today—a crime of astounding proportions. But at the time, there was no savior, no one single God understood by men and worshipped as unending and eternal. Would that man be guilty of sin?"

"An interesting question . . . but . . . I'd have to say yes. We're all sinners, after all. And God's law is both eternal and unchanging. That primitive man might not know the law is understandable, but I think men know when they've done wrong. The question is what we do about it."

Methos nodded. "A long time ago—before you were born, I'm sure—I made a confession and was absolved by a priest. In fact, it took a long time to make confession in full, a period of several years. The priest was a good man, a man I loved and respected—"

"And was your confession truthful and complete?"

"As complete as I could make it, yes."

"And your repentance was sincere?"

"Quite sincere."

He could sense the younger man nodding on the other side of the screen. Then: "Did you make full recompense for your transgression?"

Methos hesitated. "I don't know that anyone can ever make full recompense for what I did," he said at last, "but I completed the penance assigned by my confessor."

"And that penance included going to those you'd wronged, and making restitution?"

"There was no one to go to at the time."

"Ah. But there is now?"

"Yes."

"I see. It can be hard after so many years--perhaps one of the hardest things anyone can do. But you really do need to seek out this person and acknowledge your wrongs. You need to ask their forgiveness, as well as God's."

"And if they're not inclined to forgive the wrongs done them?"

"Then the sin is on their head, for God commands us to forgive every man who wrongs us. If they truly refuse to forgive you, then you must trust God to make up the difference between what you have already done and what remains to be done. Remember--we're saved by grace, not by our own work, inadequate as it must be."

"Then—the priest wasn't wrong to absolve me of my sin?"

"Under the circumstances, with incomplete knowledge on both your part and his, I'd say no. Oh, he might have been in _error_, I suppose, but it was an innocent error if you both believed there was no one for you to approach for pardon."

"And the sin itself couldn't have been beyond absolution?"

"Christ told his disciples that all sin would be forgiven, either in this world or the next--"

"Matthew 12—"

"Exactly. Verses 31-32: 'All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven men, but blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven.' I assume your confessor did not pretend to have absolved you of sinning against the Holy Ghost."

Methos responded with the slightest of smiles. "No," he said. "He didn't."

"Then you know the answer. Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

Methos blinked, surprised to find he needed to swallow before attempting to answer. "I disappointed a friend," he said slowly, "a good man who . . . has a mental image of me I can't live up to."

"What does he believe you to be?"

"Wise. Powerful. All knowing."

"Oh, is that all?" the priest asked on a chuckle. "I think your friend may lack exposure to the world."

Methos' mouth quirked. "To my world, certainly."

"Mine, too," the priest conceded. "You're fond of him, though."

Drily: "Despite evidence to the contrary."

"If you love him, you forgive him, go on, and do your best. It's all you can do."

"I forgive him for wanting me to be more than I am?"

"You forgive his illusions, yes. We all have them, after all. And you never know," the priest said. "If you care enough for him, you might just find yourself rising to the occasion."

"So, how do I regain his trust?"

"Are you so sure you've lost it?"

"Kronos was right," MacLeod said. "You set the whole thing up, didn't you? You knew he'd come after Cassandra, and you knew I'd come after her. You couldn't kill him, but you hoped I could."

Methos sighed. "He trusts me to do the most devious, underhanded thing you can think of."

"Then you'll have to be sure to disappoint him."

"Oh, I think I already disappoint him fairly regularly."

The priest laughed, the sound coming appreciatively through the screen between them. "That's not exactly what I meant," he said. "But if your friend continues to believe in you despite his disappointments, perhaps that says as much about _you_ as it does about _him_."

Methos hesitated. Then: "Perhaps."

"Well, now," the young voice said. "Try to have a little faith at least."

"Did you know the priest who was here some time ago?" Methos asked. "His name was Darius."

"Brother Darius? Yes, I knew him a little." The priest paused. "I don't mean to pry, but . . . was it he who heard your confession?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, then—he was my confessor, too, you know, for a bit, at least. Look—I can assure you, Brother Darius took your confession very seriously, and he wouldn't have absolved you if he'd had any doubts. But surely you exaggerated at least a bit," the young priest added. "I mean, Darius came to holy orders later in life, didn't he? So all of this can't have happened all _that_ long ago."

Methos smiled, ducking his head. "Perhaps not. When you live with something every day, though—"

"Yes, of course," the priest agreed. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"No. No, I suppose not. I'm sorry to keep you so late, by the way. I hadn't actually planned on going to confession. It just . . . sort of happened."

"Well, I'm glad it did. Are you a parishioner, by any chance?"

Methos chuckled. "No."

"Well, perhaps you should consider it, then. We have mass every day, you know."

"I'll think about it."

"Good. In the meantime—you seem to know your New Testament well enough. How about the Old Testament?"

"Which part did you have in mind?"

"Isaiah, chapter one, verse 18."

"Umm . . . 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' "

Again the chuckle. "I see it's a matter to which you've given considerable thought," the young priest said, and Methos smiled.

"Just lately my sins seem to be a bit pink around the edges," he said, "but I'll try to keep it in mind."

"And I'll keep you in mind, as well, and in my prayers."

"Thank you, Father."

"Good night, then, and may God keep you."

"And you, Father."

"Go in peace, my son."

The End


End file.
